


Karaoke Night

by WellSchitt



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, M/M, and gay realization, gay panic (a little), more like gay confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22400299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WellSchitt/pseuds/WellSchitt
Summary: The karaoke singer didn’t leave, even though his date had gone upstairs for the evening. He didn’t sing for awhile, either. He just sat nursing a drink, staring down at his phone and occasionally scanning the room.Patrick wished he had his phone with him, too. Without it, he had nothing to distract him, nothing to pretend to do.Finally, after about half an hour, the man stood up again.Apparently it was Mariah Carey’s turn to be desecrated.
Relationships: (mentioned) - Relationship, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Patrick Brewer/Rachel
Comments: 25
Kudos: 255





	Karaoke Night

Patrick paced his small, shitty hotel room, feeling (somewhat paradoxically) like the those four beige walls caging him in were threatening to unlock something inside him, something that was clawing at his insides to get out. He had no idea what might come pouring out, if that lock broke—he only knew that it was something he’d fought to keep inside for months now, or maybe years.

The lock was rusting, the door straining. He’d left everything—his fiancee, his parents, his job—to ensure that they’d be out of the blast radius.

He was mixing metaphors. He was also mixing cheap beer with vodka from the mini bar.

He’d already showered and shaved, then he’d unpacked what he wanted to wear tomorrow to meet his new employer. He’d shined his shoes, ironed his shirt and pants, and, in desperation, ironed his undershirt as well. As he paced, he rubbed at a smudge on his watch with a sock—not one of the socks he planned to wear tomorrow, but an old, gray one.

He should throw it away, really. It had a hole in the toe.

Christ, he’d thrown his whole life away over the past week. Ten years with Rachel: down the drain. His friends, his cousins: tossed aside. Five years at the company: kicked to the curb. And about two-thirds of his stuff was literally sitting on a curb outside his and Rachel’s—no, just Rachel’s, now—Rachel’s condo. Anything that wouldn’t fit in his car, he’d stacked neatly next to the building’s dumpsters and recycling bins.

His phone chimed yet again. Patrick barely resisted the urge to throw it in the trash alongside the sock.

Unable to stand it a moment longer, he launched himself from the room, leaving his phone behind on the nightstand and the old, useless sock in the bathroom wastebasket.

—

The hotel bar was emptier than he’d have liked. Patrick needed a whirlwind that wasn’t coming from inside his own skull. He needed movement, confusion, and noise.

On cue, a song started blaring from one corner—karaoke. Someone was about to sing karaoke to this depressing crowd of half a dozen tired-looking drinkers.

“I call you when I need you, my heart’s on fire…”

Yeesh. The singer was, to put it as politely as possible… well, he was not good. Amused, Patrick turned on the bar stool to watch.

_Jesus._

Patrick watched the rest of the performance, riveted. Against the drab backdrop of hotel bar, the man seemed like a mirage: dark hair, expensive-looking clothes, white teeth. A light tan and implausibly perfect stubble. The mic looked small in his hands as he sang, passionately and terribly, occasionally pointing dramatically into the tiny crowd.

Patrick’s mouth was hanging open; he only realized it when the man was handing back the microphone to the host, but he had a feeling it had been like that for awhile.

The singer—Patrick was using that word loosely—returned to a small table, where he was sitting with a dark-haired woman.

Feeling inexplicably depressed that the man was clearly on a date, Patrick flinched and turned back towards the bar to order another rum and coke.

—

The woman sang a song later, then the dark-haired guy again—Patrick tried not to watch, but ended up turning his stool around less than halfway through an eardrum-piercing rendition of Genie in a Bottle—and then a couple of older ladies did a duet to Sweet Caroline and Come On Eileen. Patrick drank his rum steadily but slowly, then ordered a burger and switched to beer. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he needed to balance out the alcohol.

The next time he glanced surreptitiously at the man’s table, he happened to catch the moment when the woman left on the arm of some other guy, moving towards the elevators. The guy wasn’t anywhere near as attractive as the man she’d been eating with; Patrick wondered what that was about as he watched her go.

When he looked back towards the table, he found two dark, amused eyes looking straight back at him.

Jerking his eyes back to his plate, Patrick felt a jolt in his chest, like a battering ram slamming against his ribcage.

—

The karaoke singer didn’t leave, even though his date had gone upstairs for the evening. He didn’t sing for awhile, either. He just sat nursing a drink, staring down at his phone and occasionally scanning the room.

Patrick wished he had his phone with him, too. Without it, he had nothing to distract him, nothing to pretend to do.

Finally, after about half an hour, the man stood up again.

Apparently it was Mariah Carey’s turn to be desecrated.

Feeling reckless, Patrick motioned to the bartender as soon as he was sure the dark-haired man was distracted.

“Could you-” Jesus, why was he blushing? “Could you send that, uh, that guy a drink? Nothing specific, just another of whatever he’s having?”

“Sure.” The bartender smirked. “He’s cute, right? Too bad he can’t sing worth a damn.”

She was about his age, and Patrick realized suddenly that she was very pretty, with dark, smooth skin and bright hazel eyes.

“Don’t, uh, don’t tell him it’s from me,” Patrick said quickly, already regretting the wild impulse that had led him down this road. It was stupid, it was- it was senseless. “Just, I don’t know, pretend it’s on the house or something? Is that alright?”

Her eyebrows raised. She was wearing some kind of shiny makeup on her eyelids.

She was beautiful, really.

“Ok, honey. I won’t tell him it’s from you.”

—

“Thank you for the drink,” a voice said from behind him, less than five minutes later.

Patrick spun around slowly. He couldn’t tell if he was going pale or blushing again. He felt faint, but he also felt hot all over.

“I mean, she didn’t- the bartender didn’t say who bought it, but…” The man stood there, drink in hand—the drink that Patrick had bought him, fuck, Jesus, he’d bought another man a drink at a hotel bar—and for a moment he seemed to lose confidence in the face of Patrick’s stunned silence. But then a small smile lifted one side of his mouth, and he continued, “But you’re the only person in here that’s been eyeing me all night. So. I’m hoping this was your way of saying hello.”

God, that mouth.

“I’m, um. I’m David, by the way.”

His heart started pounding wildly, so hard that Patrick felt something crack, unlock, and unfold inside.

“Hello,” he said, after a deep breath. He held out his hand and met David’s eyes. “I’m Patrick.”

**Author's Note:**

> This probably could have been a ficlet, but I'm thinking I may add to it at some point.


End file.
